Читать книгу Settling The Score - George McLane Wood - Страница 20

Chapter Fourteen

“Does hostiles mean what I think it does, Jeff?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid it does, Bo.”

“You’re jokin’?” Bo asked. “I mean you really are jokin’ me! Ain’t ya?”

“No, I believe Jeff is plumb serious, Bo!” Smitty replied.

“Well, dang it, you goin’ with him, Smitty?”

“Yeah, I reckon I’ll go with Jeff. I sure don’t wanna stay in Fort Worth by myself.”

“Well, dang it, I guess I’ll hafta go too and learn to be an Injun fighter. But if y’all get me killed, I ain’t never gonna forgive neither one of you peckerwoods.”

Twenty-eight wagons left Fort Worth in early June and headed west. Jeff and his two friends rode along beside the wagons. Most all the settlers were grateful they were along. The first week out, they were treated to hearty breakfasts and suppers by various families. Most of the menfolk had fought in the war for one side or the other.

Some men could recognize whose side they’d fought for by the pants they were still wearing. Jeff and his two friends had shucked their Yankee issued britches in Fort Worth and were wearing plain blue denim shirts and Levi’s canvass pants when they’d left with the train. After the wagons had traveled beyond Fort Weatherford, Jeff and his two amigos were called upon to take their turns with the other men who would be standing watch at night.

About twenty miles west of Fort Griffin, their wagon train was attacked by a small band of Indians; their wagon master later said they were probably just hungry Comanche. The lead wagon’s red Kentucky mule took an arrow in his left rump, which promptly got the critter’s attention. One wagon driver took an arrow in his left thigh muscle, and three Indians took bullets that knocked them off their ponies but were carried off by their compadres.

Bo credited himself with shooting one Indian, although Smitty and Jeff said they’d been too dang scared to notice if they’d shot one or not. They’d both just kept firing their pistols as fast as they could pull their triggers. Everyone on the train was mighty cautious from that time on; everybody was kept busy looking over their shoulders watching all around and constantly scouting the horizons. Once they got past Fisher County, their wagon master turned the train toward the southwest. From there on, he said, all they had to worry about was Apache and dry water holes—in that order.

They never saw one single human till they got twenty miles from Fort Davis, and then they’d run into a band of Comancheros driving wagons with tall squeaking wooden wheels, who wanted to trade for guns and ammo. Their wagon master explained those men were outlaw Indian traders who’d take advantage of a fellow if he was alone or they were few in number. He told them there was no trade and to go on their way. They saw they were outgunned by the men in the train, so they rode on in their squeaking wheel wagons.

Forty-six days after leaving Fort Worth, the wagon master said, “There is Fort Davis up ahead, folks. You’re safe from the Apache now. Those soldier boys at that fort will protect you.” Jeff went looking for the land office.

“Yes, sir, the State of Texas will be glad to sell you some ranchland over in Casper County.”

“Show me on the map. What’s the name of that river?”

“That’s the Saber River. It runs through the southern part of that county.”

“What railroad is that?”

“That’d be the Southern Pacific. Its tracks are two miles north of Jasper and they go west, clear out through New Mexico, I’m told.”

“What road is that?”

“That’s the road to Jasper, Texas, and you can see, it goes on farther west too. I don’t know where it ends.”

“How much for two sections wide and running down from this road to the Saber River?”

“Lemme see. Hmmm, I’ll have to tally it up. You’ll have to buy two and a quarter plus sections mister there or one, whichever, I can’t split off a little dab.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll take the bigger part. How much and do I get a deed?”

“Yes, you do. If you mean to pay cash? You don’t, o’ course, do you?”

“Yes, I do, how much?”

“Oh, dear me, let me see, hold on, I’ll get my boss. That 1,530 acres running down to the river in Casper County will cost you $2,675. Mister, you got that much cash money in yer Levi’s pockets?”

“Start writing out the bill of sale, fella, and get my deed wrote up, too. I’ll be right back with your money.” Jeff went out, got his saddlebags, came back in, and counted out their money in gold and silver federal coins.

“What’s yer name?”

“Nelson, Jeff Nelson.”

“Gosh-almighty, I ain’t seen so much gold and silver money since before the war,” said the boss of the state land agency.

“Okay, Mr. Nelson, here’s yer bill of sale and yer deed, all legal and tidy. You’re a Casper County, Texas, rancher now. You wanna register your brand while yer here?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“What’ll it be?”

“The JN brand.”

“Okay, Mr. Nelson, it’s registered.”

“Where’s your blacksmith? I need a branding iron made.”

“Down the street, across from the livery stable.”

“Smitty, you and Bo wanna go with me and help me start up my JN Brand ranch?”

“You know I do, my friend.”

“Count me in too, Jeff,” Bo echoed.

The land office door opened and in stepped Jorn Murphy. “Well, hell, Jeff, you beat me here, you bought yer land yet?”

“Yep, bought and paid for, Jorn, and I’ve registered my brand.”

“Well, hell, you probably bought up all the best land already too, haven’t you, Jeff?”

“No, sir, mister, we got plenty prime land left to sell you. Step over here and I’ll show you where it is!”

Jeff interrupted the land agent. “Where can I buy me some cattle?”

“There’s cattle pens down at the south end of yonder street,” he answered. “Cattle brokers are always hanging around there, somebody with enough brains oughta be glad to accommodate ya, I reckon.”

Jeff, Smitty, and Bo left to go find the cattle pens while the land agent had Jorn Murphy’s attention.